


Tangential - Just Another Modern AU Spare Bits & Pieces

by Lairenuriel



Category: Angbang-Fandom, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adult Themes, Domestic Menage, M/M, My version of it anyway, crack!, mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 00:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lairenuriel/pseuds/Lairenuriel
Summary: A friend asked that I move a writing exercise from Tumblr to AO3 for ease of access and, as I was editing, it occurred to me to create a space to air writing that did not, for whatever reason, make it into the main body of that huge Modern AU WIP.  So, here it is:A stash of unused chapters, character studies, world-building background, mojo stimulating writing exercises, vignettes, headcanons and any other spare bits interesting enough to read.With a story this long, and this complicated, a writer needs to trim things to the bone or cut it entirely to keep the narrative streamline and the plot moving at an exciting pace.  So I'll tuck the better bits here for your amusement.Thank you, everybody, you've all been so wonderful!  A humble writing mouse bobs in an awkward, Rat-like curtsey, very kind, much appreciated, may fortune find you and love walk with you every day of your life.





	Tangential - Just Another Modern AU Spare Bits & Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> chokingonwhys/mywoesaregranular asked that I move this piece from Tumblr to AO3 because hunting through Tumblr tags is time-consuming and troublesome.
> 
> I've made this multi-chaptered because I've other chapters and snippets that probably won't make it into the main body of Just Another Modern AU. It seems a shame to just sit on those files and not air them out.
> 
> This first offering can stand alone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Slice of Life from the Dark Lord's menage:
> 
> Mairon's trying to make dessert to go with the supper he's prepared, but cake batter IS yummy and Melkor will be Melkor. Head-Games amid immortals as witnessed by Langon and the Umaiar Swarm.

**_All’s Fair in Love, War, and Carrot Cake._ **

 

Melkor handed one of the Swarm a hooked fireplace poker.  Lips pursed, His eyes searched the parlor.  After a moment, He pulled a dull short-sword from thin air and passed it to another Lesser Umaia.  With a foot, Melkor pushed the sword bearer toward its poker-wielding sibling.

“Fight,” He whispered.  Looking at the dozen or more little demons who gaped up at Him with confused but properly adoring eyes, Melkor chanted, “Fight, fight, fight,”

After a moment, the Swarm repeated, “Fight, fight, fight,”, “Click-click-click,”, or “cheep-cheep-cheep” as their various vocal structures allowed.

Langon, on his way to the lavatory, paused.  For a moment, the herald stood and stared.  He wondered at the little sparring match as the Umaia with the poker closed all six eyes and took a wild swing at its fellow with the dull sword.  

Metal clanged, barely audible under a whirring electric mixer from the kitchen.

Realization dawned on the herald’s face.

Langon ducked into the parlor to grab a magazine off the coffee table.  Before he could claim the most recent issue of Real Estate Quarterly, he had to shift three mixing bowls.  The glass one had a faint streak of chocolate cake batter just under its rim.  Both plastic bowls also boasted missed smears.  One smelled of vanilla and the other of spice cake.

Langon took his magazine and locked himself in the lavatory off the main hallway.

Melkor waited until wild swings engaged in full and the Swarm chanted with enthusiasm.  The Dark Vala stepped against the paneled wall beside the kitchen door.  He shimmered and disappeared—leaving only a blank surface.

In the kitchen, the electric mixer fell silent.

“Oh, really,” an annoyed voice exclaimed, “Master?  Milord?”  Then, “Langon?  Put a stop to that.  Langon?”  After a short pause, “You lot, you little monsters, desist.  At once.” Mairon commanded.

But they were under Higher Orders and beginning to enjoy themselves.  The clangs became louder, and the chant became more intense, “FIGHT!”  (“CLICK!”, “CHEEP!”)

In the kitchen, Mairon scowled at the oven.  Preheated for over an hour and yet to receive a cake…  

“If this is yet another ‘cunning’ ploy,” the lieutenant muttered under his breath.  He looked at the bowl of batter—lemon this time—and set down his electric mixer.  Both beaters dripped into the bowl.  Mairon, who wore a tea towel tossed over one shoulder, wiped his hands and strode for the parlor.

“I know what this is,” to the kitchen-at-large, “as if I didn’t know the last three times.  There’ll be no pudding tonight.  We’re running out of flour.  If, indeed, my Lord You have any appetite left for dinner,” Mairon shot an irritated glance at a far counter where a steaming crockpot, full of beef, onion, and potato stew, bubbled and puffed steam.

The lieutenant paused in the arched opening between kitchen and parlor.  Just in time to watch a Lesser Sibling sweep a long tear in the couch fabric and send one empty plastic bowl clattering off the coffee table onto the carpet.

“Halt,” the Superior spirit did not raise his voice.  But the Lesser Umaiar could not disobey that sharp Tone of Command.  The Swarm froze and shot Mairon a guilty glance.  

There’d been previous orders about breaking things and leaving messes.

As Mairon took two steps into the room, a translucent shadow slipped off the wall behind him.  It disappeared into the kitchen.

“No.”  Mairon lifted first the dull sword and then the fireplace poker from unresisting hands.  Four of them, in the poker's case.  “No edged weapons in the house.”  He ran a finger over the slashed couch upholstery.  “ _This_  is why we can’t have  _nice_  things.”

The Swarm hung two dozen collective heads—or approximate body parts.  One pointed long claws at an empty spot on the couch.  It chittered.

“I am aware,” the lieutenant nodded, “next time, not near the furniture,” he pointed at a clear space.  Added in an afterthought, “Or the windows.”

The Swarm, very sober, nodded.  

 _As if they’d remember,_ Mairon thought.

“Where is Rat?”  He summoned, “Rat,”

After a minute, she padded down the hallway.  Pincushion in one hand and two spools of thread in the other, the Vermin dropped into that funny, awkward squat which passed for her curtsy.

“Tend that,” he indicated the torn upholstery, “if you please,” which, in Mairon, meant _Right Now_.  Rat bobbed again.

Mairon returned to the kitchen, fully cognizant of the shadow that slipped out as he walked in.  He found his bowl of lemon batter gone.  Both beaters, licked clean, discarded on the counter.

The lieutenant sighed.  He took the beaters to the sink and turned a spigot.  Waiting for the water to run hot, he opened the cupboard at his knees.

An Umaia, clad in a ragged tunic and sporting a thatch of unkempt black hair, sat in a plastic basin.  Clamping a little, flat tin of soldering flux in his mouth, he disassembled and reassembled spare plumbing fixtures into fantastical shapes.

“Go down to my flat.  Fetch me the bag of long, orange, conical sticks from my fridge.  Also, the tub of Philly cheese and more butter.”  A short pause, “You’ll want a basket.  Here,” Mairon muttered a word of power and pulled a woven wicker basket from thin air.  “Fetch my teapot while you’re at it.”

The Umaia emerged from under the sink and tenderly set his flux tin in the plastic basin.  He took the basket in both small hands.  

Mairon pulled the tea towel from his shoulder.  Folding it in quarters, he laid it in the wicker basket bowl.  “Don’t break my teapot, Vole,” quietly.

Vole dipped his head.  He pattered toward the kitchen door, obviously circumventing the parlor, and let himself out.

Mairon, with a satisfied nod, used one knee to close the cupboard.  He washed the beaters by hand with a squirt of dish soap.

“Let us see what You make of  _this_ cake, o Master-mine,” under his breath.  He shook off the beaters and dropped them in the drainer.

Mairon searched through the drawers and pantry until he found a manual box-grater.

A perfectly good food processor squatted on one counter, but that would produce too much noise.  Himself would _know_.

“This is delicious, love,” Melkor called from the parlor, “what flavor is it?”

“Lemon, my Lord.”  He set the box-grater on the counter and went to stand in the arched doorway.

Since Rat stitched away at His usual spot, Melkor occupied the other end of the comfortable couch.

With His back to Mairon, the Master held up a large plastic spatula—all the better to scrape stolen bowls—and announced, “The chocolate was tasty, too, but methinks I like this better.  You may make it again.  Soon.”

“Very good, my Lord,” Mairon replied in a toneless voice.

“You,” Melkor pointed the plastic spatula at one of the Swarm, “bring him those bowls so he can wash up.  Don’t drop the glass.”

Mairon had lost his best, glass bowl with the first batch of “appropriated” batter.  When the Lesser Sibling came around the couch with a precarious stack—glass on the bottom—Mairon relieved the other Umaia of its burden.

“Go tell our brother he’d best get his arse out of that lav,” Mairon ordered, “I know he’s hiding in there.”

He took the bowls back to the kitchen.  First, he refilled the kettle and set it to heat.  Then he washed the bowls.  They joined the beaters in the drainer.  Just as he finished, the Umaia he’d sent after Langon returned.  It clicked at him.

“Reading?  I care not.  He can read in the parlor.  It’s bath night.  I want you lot finished so I can have mine after sup.  Tell Rat to prep the tub once she’s done sewing.”

It grimaced.

“You  _will_  have a bath if I have to scrub you myself.  All of you.”

It snicked at him.

"I don’t care if you rotate through a shower.   ** _I’m_**  having a proper bath.  This time, undress," he opened the warming drawer and pulled out a pan bearing three loaves of proved bread.  "And use soap."

Mairon popped the bread in the oven—now running unused for an hour and a half.  

The kitchen door opened.  In slipped Vole.  Clutching a bag of carrots in one hand, he hugged the basket to his chest with the other arm.

“Cuppa coffee, love?”  Melkor called from the parlor.  “How soon ‘til sup?  Ai, Dimwit, find out how long ‘til sup.”

“Yes, Master,” Langon responded as he walked into the kitchen.

“Coffee in a tick.  Sup in an hour.”  Mairon said as he relieved Vole of both basket and carrots.  He lifted his brown, ceramic teapot with loving hands. 

As Langon opened his mouth, “Go out  _there_  and tell Him.  Shouting inside is rude, you crass bastard.”

Langon snapped his lips together, pivoted, and marched back into the parlor.

The kettle bubbled and whistled.  Mairon lined up Philly cheese, carrots, and butter on the counter beside the mixer.  He set the teapot by the kettle.

The Maia pulled a hidden tub of decaf from the very back of one cupboard and made Melkor a huge mug of instant coffee.  After using the remaining hot water to warm his teapot, Mairon set a fresh kettle to heat.

When Langon returned to the kitchen, Mairon handed him the Master’s mug and waved the herald away with a shooing motion.

Langon glared.  Wordlessly, he turned back to the parlor.

Mairon prepared a tea egg with loose black keemun.  Waiting for the kettle to boil again, he, with inhuman speed, scrubbed and grated most of the carrots.  He melted the butter in his hand and measured out the very last of the flour.

When Langon returned to the kitchen, Mairon folded yet another cake batter.  The herald carried an empty plastic mixing bowl.

The kettle began to sing.  One handed, the lieutenant set up his fresh pot; all smooth, graceful motion right down the final clink of the lid.

“Is the Master content?”

Langon deposited the empty bowl in the sink.  “Content.”

“You will wash that,” Mairon snipped.

“Fine,” Langon grumbled.  He rinsed.

“Use soap.”  Mairon snapped.

Langon muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?”  Marion stopped folding his batter.  His red head turned.  Golden eyes flared.

“Yes,  _Lieutenant_ ,”  Langon picked up the dish soap.

Vole, unhappy witness to this exchange, skirted woodwork until he reached the sink.  Slipping in front of Langon, he pulled at the cabinet door.  It was safe under the sink.  Dark and quiet.

Langon’s legs blocked the way and left Vole unable to squeeze through.

The Umaia who’d argued about bath-night picked its fangs with one claw.  Multi-faceted black eyes studied the confrontation and Vole’s attempt to hide.

“I won’t have your lip, Herald,” Mairon pointed his rubber spatula.

Langon straightened from the sink and dropped the bowl atop the others in the drainer.  He snipped back, “All this revolting domesticity—the cake, the sheets,  _the dusting_ ,”

Vole tried his hardest but couldn’t open the cupboard doors wide enough to slip through.  He ended up pinned to the woodwork with Langon’s knee in his hideous little face.

“What?”  Mairon hissed, “Permit Himself to live in filth?  Hemmed by clutter?  I remember full well Utumno’s state when first I arrived.”  He shifted the rubber spatula, holding like a dagger ready for use.  “Wild yrch roaming without regiment or regimen.  Armories boasting more rust than iron.  Balrogs loafing in lava pools day in and day out while blast furnaces lay cold,”

Melkor, draining the last of His coffee, glanced at Rat.  She knotted her thread.  In the kitchen, the argument had escalated:

“I’m a herald, not a housemaid!”

“You’ll be whatever the Master needs you to be when He needs it.  Otherwise, you are of  _no use_.”

“Noisy, aren’t they?”  Melkor commented to Rat.  She tucked her double knot between the upholstery weave before she looked up at the Master.  She chittered.

“I could.  But, really, it’s best they work this out for themselves.  Again.”  Melkor handed her His mug.  “Tell Mairon I’ll want another with dinner.”  He settled back on the couch.

“And where do  _you_  think  _you’re_  going?”  Mairon launched into “Commander of Angband” voice: brisk and brimming with authority.

“Chitter-click,”

“You get all four arms into the pump room, pile up the towels, open a fresh bar of soap, and start that shower.  Vole, call to arms!  Every Umaia in the house—not one of you little bastards tastes bread and butter until you’ve washed.”  The oven door banged.  The smell of baking bread filled the flat.

Melkor inhaled, “Mmmm,”

“Rat,” a peremptory summons.

She turned to obey.  Melkor said, “Find out if he put mushrooms in that stew.  I’m in the mood for mushrooms.”

Rat bobbed and pattered away.  As she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, Mairon bombarded her.

“Get the whole damned lot of them in the shower.  They can go three at a time, I don’t care, but they wash now.  Sans clothes and with soap.  Am I understood?  This whole house smells of dirty Umaiar.  It’s like a thousand soiled socks piled in a corner.  And wash whatever they’re wearing.  Throw out anything that won’t make it through a spin cycle,”

That, Rat thought, was every rag on the Swarm.

“It won’t hurt them to go naked for a day.  It’s quite warm,” Mairon pulled up.  He fell silent.  Drawing a deep breath, he obviously remembered that temperature didn’t matter.  They were spirits.  The clothing, like the flesh, was a mere affectation.

The smell, Rat concurred, was not.  The Swarm stunk.  They effused a miasma musty cloth, dusty niches, spilled food, and stenches much more sinister.

She dropped her funny little curtsey again.  Handing Mairon the Master’s empty coffee mug, Rat warbled.

“Yes, of course,” he rinsed the mug and left it upside down on the counter.  “No,” Mairon muttered, “someone ate the mushrooms,”

Rat pattered to her sibling.  

It had hoped that, amid all the fuss, the lieutenant might forget this washing nonsense.  It would soon learn.  Mairon forgot nothing and no detail, no matter how trivial, escaped his attention for long.

Rat grabbed the other Umaia by the spiky hairs on the back of its head.  Turning, she hauled it behind her.  The other Umaia growled and hissed, but did not fight.

Vole slid from behind Langon’s legs and hurried after Rat.  He shot a last look from lieutenant to the herald as he ran for the door.

“Who ate all the mushrooms,” Langon bemoaned,  “I bought five pounds yesterday.”

Mairon, about to sling a fresh tea towel over his shoulder, used it instead to gesture toward the parlor and He who sat watching telly.

Langon shut up.  

They heard Rat chatter as, dragging her snarling sibling all the way, she swept by Melkor.

Langon retrieved his car keys from the bowl on the kitchen table and checked to make sure he had cash.  He showed Mairon his empty billfold.

“Dimwit, mushrooms!  Now!”  Melkor received no scolding for shouting in the house.  “Make haste, your brother needs to get them into the pot as soon as possible.”

Mairon finally got his tea towel over his shoulder.  He held up a finger.  Langon watched him summon a ledger and little strongbox from the unseen shadow plane around them.

“You may as well get milk, eggs, and flour while you’re out.  Start a list.”  Mairon brought both box and ledger to the kitchen table.

Langon dug himself up a notepad and a pen.

Mairon recorded the expenditure under “Household Expenses”.

Langon started his list with “Mushrooms!!!!” underlined and circled.  After adding the staple goods, Langon looked at Mairon.  The lieutenant opened the small strongbox and counted out a stack of pound notes.

“Frozen yogurt for you?”  Langon asked.  Mairon shook his head.  Langon murmured, “Frozen yogurt,” and wrote it on his list.

Mairon added more cash to his stack.  “Stop at the Off-license first.  Don’t get the largest bottle of whiskey on the shelf.  And don’t get that cheap shit—I can smell it exuding out of your pores for days.”

Mairon looked at the bowl of batter on the counter.  He added a few more notes to the pile.  “You’d best stop at the patisserie.  Get two cakes.  Chocolate and lemon.”

Langon frowned at the bowl of batter.

“Oh, Himself won’t eat that.”  Mairon murmured.

The herald then spotted a leftover carrot hanging out by the grater.  Groaned, “Why do you  _do_  these  _things_?” under his breath.  He added cakes to his list and changed frozen yogurt to “gelato—praline or caramel”.

Mairon ignored Langon’s question.  But he thrummed deep in his throat and smiled, so slightly, to himself.

The lieutenant folded dimensions around ledger and strongbox.  They disappeared.

Langon remembered last week when Mairon had served Melkor salad for dinner.  Just salad.

Not even Mairon dared tell the Master no when Melkor decided the roast chicken resting under foil had rested quite enough.  Mairon would, however, slap the mashed potatoes in the fridge and serve Melkor nothing more than a plate full of tossed greens.

The ensuing confrontation had escalated from Melkor hauling Mairon around by his hair to Melkor hauling Mairon off to the master bedroom.  And a series of familiar, voluble howls that Langon, indeed every Umaia, recognized.  Howls not inspired by pain…only partially inspired by pain.

Of course, this was Mairon.  The only Maia in all Creation who’d dangle a ball gag in clenched teeth, loop a leather belt around the Master’s neck, and lure Melkor into that aforementioned bedroom.

“I’ll sauté the mushrooms in a pan and add them at the last.”  The object of this train of thought said now.  He pulled the bread from the oven and knocked one loaf with a knuckle.  “Hm, not just yet.”  Mairon mused and put the bread back.  “Get going, Brother, I can only slow this stew so much.”  He lowered the heat on the crockpot and cracked the lid.

“Fight in the pump room,” Melkor called from the parlor.  “Needs sorting.”

“There’s no fight in the pump room,” Mairon muttered.  He snatched a soup bowl down from a cupboard.  “Fool me four times—I think not.”

Langon took the money Mairon had left on the kitchen table.

Torn between the desire to witness the impending confrontation and the knowledge that he definitely should not, the herald made his way to the door.

Mairon, soup bowl in hand, stalked into the parlor.  Langon let his fingers rest on the knob.  Melkor appeared in a swirl of cold, dark smoke.  The Master smirked, claimed the cake batter, and scooped up a big mouthful with His rubber spatula.

At first perplexed, Melkor moved the batter around in His mouth.  

Then… Oh, what a divine grimace of outrage and disgust!  

Langon bit the inside of his cheeks.  He opened the door.

Mairon appeared at Melkor’s side with a flurry of swirling energy and a shower of bright sparks.  He thrust out his soup bowl in time to catch Melkor’s spat mouthful.

“What the fuck IS that?” Plucking the tea towel from Mairon’s shoulder, the Vala wiped His lips.  Then His tongue.  “Is that shredded root?  That’s revolting!”

“That is carrot cake, my Lord,” Mairon relieved Melkor of the batter.  

Setting aside the soup bowl, the lieutenant promptly poured the batter into a pre-prepared pan and, using his own rubber spatula, swiped the bowl clean.  Mairon discarded both.  

He lifted the pan, dropped it firmly on the counter to bring up the air bubbles, then opened the oven and traded bread for cake.  Without hot mitts.

“That’s repulsive!”  Melkor, finding a fresh bit of towel, wiped His tongue again.  “Maia, have you lost your mind?!”

“Yes, Master, I have lost my mind,”  Mairon responded in a silken, placid voice.  Sliding the bread onto a cooling rack, he added, “Utterly mad.”  Mairon gave Melkor a long look from beneath lowered lids.  He deposited the baking sheet on its own rack.  “As You well know, lord.”

Melkor advanced.  Mairon scooped up an apple-shaped oven timer.  The lieutenant set it as he began a slow retreat.

The Vala rumbled like a newly awakened volcano.

Abandoning the plastic apple on the island, Mairon tossed both dirty beaters into the empty mixing bowl.  Melkor, inexorable, pressed forward.  Mairon edged 'round the island and, without breaking eye contact, deposited the bowl and beaters in an empty sink.  Each backward step kept Mairon three paces ahead and out of reach.

Golden eyes aglow, Mairon watched Melkor with the intensity of a mouse mesmerized by a hawk.  Passing the refrigerator door, he put away the tub of Philly cheese and butter.  Then Mairon, with just a hint of tongue, moistened his lower lip.

Melkor’s sub-harmonic rumble changed.  He growled; flashed a hint of fang.

The lieutenant’s golden eyes widened, flared brighter if such a thing was possible, and, for a half a second, a smile quirked one corner of his mouth.

Mairon, Melkor in pursuit, went 'round again.

Langon, with the door open beside him, looked on with a combination of disbelief and admiration as lord and lieutenant circled for a third time.  Only Mairon had the balls to play these games and to flee, however slowly, from the Master.

Melkor’s resonant growl grew louder with each step.

“I beg my Lord remember that, if He breaks my jaw, He won’t enjoy a proper cock-suck for a week.  Or more.”  Mairon, voice suave and properly deferential, paused long enough for the Vala to come within reach.

Melkor snarled.

Mairon bit down a throaty croon.

Langon left.

 

Rat held an indignant sibling beneath the shower spray.  Vole scrubbed leathery black skin with liquid soap and a brush.  Both looked around when they heard Melkor’s footstep in the hall.  

Through dripping hair, Rat watched the Master stalk past.  Melkor carried their lieutenant thrown ass over teakettle over one shoulder.  With his wrists bound in a tea towel behind his back and his mouth jammed open around a knot of his own russet hair. 

Their eyes met. 

Mairon projected mental orders:   _Pull my tea egg.  When the timer rings, take the cake out of the oven._ They disappeared toward the master bedroom.   _And turn off the crockpot._

Rat, balancing barefoot on the tub rim, towered above the unhappy Swarm packed in the bathroom.  She smiled at Vole.  Grinning back, he shoved their soapy sibling under spraying water for a rinse.

Everything was, finally, just as it should be.  Back to normal.

Rat nodded once.  She pulled their dripping sib from the shower and pushed it onto a pile of waiting towels.  As it wrapped itself in the top one, Rat reached out and grabbed another Umaia.  Hauled it under the spray and squirted soap on its furry head and upper body.  It squawked.  Vole went to work with his brush.

The wet little demon shut up when a new sound rose over the shower: the distinct hiss and crack of leather on flesh.  It echoed through the whole flat.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's one for a friend! Very complimented that you wanted better access to this snippet, my dear! I HAD to tinker with it before I re-posted, because I'm a helpless perfectionist, so I hope you find this "new and improved" version to your liking! Nothing's changed, really, just a little more nuance added. (And, heck, yeah - I'd be VERY grateful if you let me know about those misspellings/word choices you found! My eye's gone dead, so to speak.)
> 
>  
> 
> As always, a mouse humbly thanks you all for reading her stuff and continues her struggle to provide you with her very best work!


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